Tales of the West Riding

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Put your hands this way, Elfride,” she said, and she guided Elfride’s hands and laid wool on the cards for her, and drew the cards slowly back and forth, and when at last Elfride caught the knack of it and produced a fine smooth even tissue ready for spinning, Emmott showed it to William, who smiled and praised Elfride and pinched her cheek playfully, and said quietly to Emmott: “Thank you, my dear.”

  A spark of jealousy flashed sharply in Sybille’s heart, for if she loved anybody at all beside herself she loved her father. Not wishing to appear meanly before her father, however, she spoke kindly to Emmott, thanking her for teaching Elfride so well.

  “I could never get her to learn it,” she said in a meant-to-be generous tone. “But you seem to know everything about wool and cloth, Emmott.”

  “My mother earned our living as a weaver,” said Emmott simply.

  Sybille coloured with shame for her, for she had never heard of a woman as a weaver, but she noticed that William and Agnes seemed to take it calmly, so she held her tongue.

  The next thing was that Emmott began to teach Elfride to make a woollen ball. It was a simple matter really: you cut a circle of wood and pierced a large hole in the centre and then wound wool through the centre and over the edge, round and round, very thick; then you threaded a piece of wool under the threads at the centre, and pulled it tight and tied its ends; and then you cut the wool round the edge of the circle and took out the wood, and the wool threads all sprang together and you had a nice soft ball. Elfride was delighted; and next time William went to market in Hudley he brought back some lengths of different coloured wool yarns that he had begged there from clothiers, friends of his, the lengths being too short to be of any value. Elfride clapped her hands for joy and made a really fine wool ball, the different colours among the white giving it a bright appearance.

  As it chanced, the day after this ball was finished—Elfride had hardly ceased to play with it, throwing it up and catching it again—Sybille saw Richard riding up the lane.

  “Keep Elfride out of the way, Emmott,” she said hastily. “I do not wish her to annoy our guest.”

  Emmott inclined her head and took Elfride upstairs on ome pretended errand, and Sybille smoothed her hair and went out to the gate to meet Richard, hoping for a few words alone with him before she brought him into the house under her mother’s eye.

  “Not looking for strayed eggs today?” said Richard, smiling as he dismounted.

  “Not today,” said Sybille, casting down her eyes. “Are you riding to Hudley, Richard?”

  Richard hesitated. “Possibly,” he said.

  He said this because he did not like to lie and he was not on his way to Hudley. Sybille perceived this and rejoiced.

  “He has come only to see me,” she thought.

  She raised her eyes, and smiling at him invited him into the house to taste her mother’s fresh-baked pasty. But just at that moment that tiresome woollen ball came flying through the air from an upper window, straight at Richard. He put out one hand and caught it neatly, and looking to see whence it came, perceived Elfride leaning out of the window and laughing at him.

  “Thanks, Elfride,” called Richard, and looking at the wool ball was taken with it, and threw it up and down with some enjoyment, and cried: “Come down and play, Elfride!”

  Then of course Elfride came charging down and out into the yard, and ran up to Richard, and they began throwing the ball between them.

  “Emmott! Emmott!” cried Sybille impatiently. She had much ado not to stamp her foot, but controlled her impulse, not wishing to show temper in front of Richard. “Come down, Emmott!”

  Emmott came out looking flushed and sorry, and touched Elfride on the arm and tried to draw her away, but Elfride would not be drawn; she enjoyed playing with Richard.

  “Emmott helped me to make this ball,” she said.

  Her speech had improved lately, she slobbered less and spoke in less of a rush; her words could now be heard and understood without too much difficulty. So of course Richard turned towards Emmott, and Sybille had to present her.

  “Emmott is living with us now,” she said. “She is the daughter of an old friend of my father’s.”

  Richard bowed politely. Emmott gave her gentle smile but did not speak to him.

  “Come, Elfride,” she said, drawing the girl aside.

  Elfride turned round suddenly and handed the ball to Richard.

  “For you,” she said.

  “What? Is it a gift, Elfrid?” said Richard, laughing kindly.

  “Yes—a gift!” shouted Elfride, delighted.

  “Be not so foolish, Elfride,” said Sybille impatiently. “What could Richard do with a woollen ball?”

  Elfride’s mouth turned down at the corners and tears came into her eyes.

  “I want Richard to have my ball. He played with me,” she wailed.

  “I am honoured, Mistress Elfride,” said Richard quickly in a serious tone. He bowed. “We shall exchange gifts, shall we not?”

  “Yes,” said Elfride, laughing. (She often passed thus in a moment from one emotion to another.) “You will bring me a gift, Richard?”

  “Assuredly,” said Richard, buttoning the wool ball into his pouch.

  “When? When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You are too kind, Richard,” said Sybille.

  At last Emmott got Elfride away into the house. Sybille turned to Richard, but he had already turned to his horse.

  “Well, I must be off about my business,” he said, mounting.

  “And what is your business today, Richard?” said Sybille in a tender tone.

  Richard laughed. “To find a gift for Elfride,” he said. “What else?”

  He saluted her with his whip and rode away.

  In her disappointment Sybille spoke sharply to Emmott as they all sat at meat.

  “If you cannot compass such a simple matter as to keep Elfride out of my guest’s way,” she said, “It is a pity, Emmott.”

  “I am truly sorry, Sybille,” said Emmott, colouring. “I tried my best, I did indeed. Elfride—” she checked herself and bit her lip. “I am sorry.”

  Nobody knew better than Sybille how stubborn Elfride could be when she had a mind. Besides, Sybille thought her father’s mild grey eyes were fixed on her in some disapproval. So she said: “Well, never mind,” in a tone as kind as she could manage, and felt pleased with herself for her own good temper.

  Afterwards, as the two girls sat together at the embroidery frame, Agnes being absent for a moment, an impulse overcame her and she said quietly:

  “What do you think of Richard Askrode, Emmott?”

  Emmott smiled.

  “He hath a very warm heart. You are of good fortune in him, Sybille.”

  Just for a moment Sybille’s own heart warmed, and it seemed as if she could be truly fond of Emmott. All day they spoke in friendly fashion together, Sybille telling the other about Thomas de Askrode, and Dame Joanna and her dominion over her husband, and the great Askrode mansion, and Richard’s horses and his skill in the saddle, and what he had said at this time and that, to Sybille. (A little exaggeration here, perhaps.) Emmott was a good listener, and her brown eyes were kind and friendly. When they went to bed Sybille was happier than she had been since Emmott’s coming.

  But next day all this was spoiled. For Richard came in the evening as they were all sitting together round the hearth, and brought a handsome piece of white lace for Elfride, and a black piece for Emmott.

  “I thought black for your cousin, as she is in mourning,” he said.

  “Emmott is not my cousin. Her mother was a weaver,” shrilled Sybille in a fury, her slight bosom heaving.

  Richard looked taken aback.

  “Since she helped Elfride to make the wool ball,” he said, “I thought—that was all, Sybille. If I have done wrong—if I should have brought you some lace—I shall be most happy to repair my omission.”

  “You speak like a fool, Richard,” stor
med Sybille. She held the black lace up to Emmott’s shoulder. “It does not suit her,” she said brutally. “Her complexion is too dull for black.”

  Richard turned rather pale.

  “I regret that I have offended,” he said stiffly. “Mistress Agnes, I commend me to you and so farewell.”

  He bowed himself out without further word.

  No sooner was the door closed behind him than Emmott turned to Sybille and thrust the black lace into her hands.

  “Take it. He meant it for you,” she said.

  Her voice was hoarse, her pleasant face distorted. Suddenly she gave a deep, heart-rending sob and fled up the stairs.

  “Take your filthy lace—I won’t touch it!” cried Sybille.

  She threw down the black lace and stamped on it and kicked it aside. Elfride, who was crouched by her father, spreading her white lace over his knee, gave a shrill scream as her sister trampled over her to the stairs.

  In her room Sybille paced backwards and forwards in uncontrollable rage—not that she tried to control it; she revelled in it, re-enacting the scene with Richard over and over again and exclaiming aloud in fury. Every thread of the pattern of that hateful lace was stamped indelibly on her mind. The light had faded, but her anger was still hot, when her mother came in carrying a candle.

  “Your father is displeased with you, Sybille,” she said in an uneasy tone, setting the candlestick down on the kist.

  “Is he indeed?” said Sybille grimly, her anger now swelled by grief.

  “Yes. Emmott is alone in the world, she has no father or mother, you should be kind to her, your father takes it ill that you are not.”

  “No father or mother!” raged Sybille. “Nobody would think so who saw her here. She is treated as the daughter of the house, it seems to me, while I—” A slight change, a flicker of expression, in her mother’s timid face suddenly set every thought in her head jangling. “Is that how it goes?” she whispered hoarsely. “She is my father’s bastard, is she not?”

  “How dare you!” cried Agnes. “How dare you so insult your father! He is a good man. You are a wicked girl, Sybille.”

  Her thin voice was strong with anger, she held her head up, her faded face and her stringy throat showed patches of angry red. Sybille was as astounded to see her weak mother in such a rage as to see a lamb daring a bull. Her anger fled at once, replaced by fear.

  “She is someone’s bastard, however,” she snivelled. “Do not deny it, mother.”

  “That is nought to do with us,” said her mother firmly. “We at Greenwode are decent God-fearing folk. Look to your Richard’s kin whom you think so much of, if you want to know.”

  “She is Thomas Askrode’s child—Richard’s half-sister?” cried Sybille with glee.

  “No, no. Thomas Askrode’s cousin’s.”

  “Then why is she consigned to us?” demanded Sybille sulkily.

  “It is Dame Joanna’s wish and we are glad of the money. It is not Emmott’s fault, Sybille. Bethink you, you have father and mother and a good dower and much beauty. Emmott hath none of these. Pity her, then.”

  “If she hath my father’s affection,” began Sybille—in her heart she added, “and Richard’s,” but could not for shame speak it aloud. “If she hath my father’s affection and yours,” she said instead, allowing her voice to shake a little as if with emotion, “she hath all that I desire.”

  “You are our very dear daughter,” said Agnes, weeping. “That is why we grieve so when you conduct yourself ill.” She enfolded her daughter in her arms. Sybille submitted and managed a sob or two which sounded very convincing.

  5

  On Sunday as they came out from Mass Sybille contrived to walk beside Richard.

  “I wished to walk with you, Richard,” she began with a great air of frankness: “I wished to tell you my regrets for my misgovernment the other evening. I do not know what demon hovered over me—had you not every right to make a gift to your cousin?”

  “Cousin?” said Richard, perplexed.

  “I understand that Emmott is distant kin of your father,” purred Sybille.

  “It is the first I have heard of it,” said Richard bluntly.

  “Why,” said Sybille, looking modestly down: “She is—she is—on the wrong side of the blanket, as they say. But Askrode kin.”

  “You are mistaken, I think,” said Richard coolly, looking back over his shoulder to where Emmott walked with Elfride, who was babbling to her.

  “It was my mother who told me,” said Sybille. “So we should be very kind to her on account of her misfortune.”

  “Indeed you are right,” said Richard.

  His tone was rather dry, but Sybille was not dissatisfied. The barb was planted.

  6

  “Father,” said Richard.

  “Yes, my boy,” said Thomas. It was vexing to be disturbed when he was busy with his accounts, but (rather to his surprise) he found he loved his son better than his rents, so he put a finger on his place in the column of figures and looked up. Richard was leaning forward with his arms on the back of a chair facing his father. “Yes, my boy,” repeated Thomas.

  “I am told that Emmott de Greenwode is some bastard kin of ours.”

  “Who told you that?” said Thomas, frowning.

  “Sybille.”

  “It is an ill matter for a young maid to know, and much more ill for her to speak of it to a young man.”

  “Mistress Agnes is not the wisest of mothers, I trow,” said Richard shrugging.

  “That is so.”

  “Then it is true?”

  “Aye, it is true.”

  “Whose child is she?” said Richard sharply.

  “My cousin Richard’s. Her father was killed in France. Her mother died lately.”

  “Why is she not here with us at Askrode? It is a shame to us that she is not in our household.”

  Thomas hesitated. He did not wish to be disloyal to his wife, but could not bear his young son to think ill of him.

  “It was your mother’s wish,” he said at last.

  Richard frowned.

  “She is not well at ease where she is,” he said. “Emmott, I mean. Can you not persuade my mother to change her mind?”

  Thomas considered. “Not in this matter, I fear,” he said. “Be content, Richard.”

  Richard exclaimed and left him.

  7

  “You avoid me, Emmott,” said Richard.

  It was Christmastide, and there were many guests at Askrode. Down in the great hall there was dancing; up in a corner of the musicians’ gallery Emmott and Elfride sat and watched.

  “Elfride and I like to watch the dancing,” said Emmott.

  “Do you not like to dance yourself?”

  Emmott hesitated, and Elfride said with a giggle:

  “She is afraid to vex Sybille.”

  “I am not afraid, Elfride,” said Emmott quietly.

  “Sybille dances beautifully,” said Elfride on a wistful note.

  “Sybille is very beautiful in every way,” said Emmott with sincerity.

  “That is so. And yet, I do not wish her to stand at my side all my life,” said Richard.

  His voice was low, and he bent to Emmott’s ear that she alone might hear him. Emmott looked up at him, her great brown eyes wide with astonishment and some other feeling. For a moment they gazed at each other. Then Richard spoke.

  “Do you lack courage to dance with me, Emmott?” he said.

  “No!” said Emmott.

  “Then come,” said Richard.

  He offered her his wrist; very quietly she laid her fingers on it—they were slender, well-formed fingers, Richard noted with satisfaction. He led her down to the hall. Elfride, leaning over the balustrade, giggled happily.

  8

  “But it is absurd, it is ridiculous, Richard,” said Dame Joanna. “You who might marry anyone in the county! You, an Askrode, to marry some little bastard in rags. Come, son, it is beyond belief. You will be the laughing-stock of
the neighbourhood.”

  Richard, who stood before his parents in an easy attitude with his arms folded, laughed cheerfully and said nothing.

  “Why should you want to marry this Emmott?” said his mother crossly.

  “She is my fancy, mother,” said Richard.

  “I do not admire your taste.”

  “You do not know Emmott, mother.”

  “I have seen her in church. If she resembles that little vixen Sybille!”

  “She does not resemble Sybille in the least,” said Richard impatiently. “Why should she? She is an Askrode, mother; do you remember?”

  Joanna looked aside.

  “If there is love between them, wife,” murmured Thomas.

  “You are too soft-hearted, husband,” said Dame Joanna sharply.

  But she felt a moisture in her eyes. She had always loved Thomas and he had never loved her; though Thomas was a kind and courteous husband she knew what it was to experience wedded life without love. It seemed perhaps he knew what it was, too.

  “Have you said aught to the girl, Richard?” she asked.

  “Yes and no,” said Richard cheerfully. “I have not mentioned marriage, but I think she knows my meaning.”

  “You think!” said his mother in scorn.

  “She knows,” said Richard, colouring.

  “She will have no dower,” lamented Thomas.

  “I did not know Askrode was so poor, sir,” said Richard easily.

  “We do not know her well enough, Richard,” said his mother, gazing at him fondly. How could any girl resist a youth so fresh, so fair, so well-spoken!

  “But you can easily come to know her, mother,” said Richard eagerly. “She is a good embroidress; you can invite her to visit us, to help fill in the background of that altar cloth about which you are always complaining.”

  “You have arranged it all between you,” snapped Dame Joanna.